


Sadism and sadness

by quenive



Series: This and that [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation, Consensual Violence, Guilt, M/M, Masochism, human!hal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: He's still looking up at you, amber eyes now fully wide and seeking answers instead of half lidded and begging for satisfaction. You're still looking down at him, studying the features you memorized a long time ago. The spot on his cheek where you just slapped him is slowly reddening. You're captivated with the beauty but overrun by guilt. Were his eyes always this... golden?"Hal?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Direct influence for writing this fic was ["Song for a guilty sadist"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BjMwdL5WtFc) by Crywank. 
> 
> Enjoy your sad gay sex.

You have an unhealthy habit of setting your body on one side, and your brain on the other. The fact that one can't function without the other is well known to you. A brain and its body cannot separate and function, it's like, biology 101. Fuck, if anyone knows this type of bullshit it's certainly you. This aside, you have a term for this phenomena you've grown quite adept at: autopilot.

Those shitty work days when you'd let your body do what it's intended to, but allow your brain to scamper off on the other side of the globe. When you're waiting in a long line and don't want to suffer through the accidental touches of disgusting pedestrians, or just when you're really not feeling up for the task handed to you. The job is done before you know it, minimal effort and minimal strain. Just your corrupt carbon-based flesh vehicle working on its own. They grow up so fast, you're getting a little teary-eyed thinking about it.

Until your fingers move away from his throat, arm swings, palm connects with his face with the most disturbing slap sound you've heard in your entire god damned life. You flinch, but he doesn't notice you doing so. His moans are like sandpaper against your eardrums, scraping and corrupting the soft flesh of your internal ear walls. There's some drool leaking from the corner of his lip and down his chin. His whole body is like a canvas of purple and blue, all the bruises he begged you to give him. The voice he used was too rare and too sweet not to obey. You are a tiny, insignificant serpent wrapped around his little finger. Poisonous, in delusion. Convinced you have the upper hand when in reality, he can crush you before you even think about sinking your fangs into his skin.

He notices your hesitation by the way your hips slowed down. Now they're on a complete halt as you stare down at him. Pounding him into the mattress sounded so good once, like a fantasy or a dream you attempted so hard at fulfilling. Now it's just a routine your body learned all too well. Well enough to be set on autopilot for a brief moment, anyways. You still didn't get used to hurting him, nor do you think you ever will.

He's still looking up at you, amber eyes now fully wide and seeking answers instead of half lidded and begging for satisfaction. You're still looking down at him, studying the features you memorized a long time ago. The spot on his cheek where you just slapped him is slowly reddening. You're captivated with the beauty but overrun by guilt. Were his eyes always this... golden?

"Hal?"

They're like honey. Sweet, but they sting. Your mind doesn't fail to remind you and replay all of the looks he's capable of making with them. In a second you'd recognize joy, fear, pain, pleasure, disappointment, excitement, grief. The room isn't well lit at all, with only a soft corner lamp illuminating your short horizon. Still you see every spark and every pinch of change. You scare yourself with this sometimes, but you can read this fucker like a two cent porno you get for half-off in an iffy subway.

He nudges you with his leg, and you snap out of it. When you're looking at him now, you're not studying him. Just letting him know that, yes, I'm motherfucking listening bro. Lay it the fuck on me. Right now, while I'm laying you.

Your internal monologue silences as you snap out of it again. Trailing off has its pros and cons, but this was by far the latter.

"Oh." You softly say, careful not to hint to him being the one to blame for your sudden hesitation.

So you lean down to kiss him. The position you two are in allowed that to be possible without a lot of extra complications. Your feet are basically nailed onto the floor, and really, they aren't budging any time soon. He's on the very edge of the bed, HIS bed, where you're screwing him like a champ. Hugging your hips with his legs, he pulls you in further as you dip down for a kiss. In return you take a deathgrip of his waist and slam him into you further. Game on, you're through hiding from your issues like a cowardly twit. He didn't invite you here to think, he invited you to fuck him senseless, take a short breather from the mentioned, and then fuck him some more.

You can do this, you're skilled at willing your body to do things it really doesn't want to do, not then and not ever. He has a faint taste of oranges and mint. That fact nearly makes you chuckle to yourself, but instead you bite down on his lower lip and tug gently before letting go. Although limited by his legs, your hips are still rolling into his body as you clutch his easily bruised skin at the waist. There are gonna be marks there in the shapes of your hands and fingers. It's an odd feeling, knowing this pure skin was ruined and marked by you.

He whines like a needy little pup when you go for the crease between his neck and shoulder. It's your favorite spot to nibble on, if anything. But you both know he isn't really the nibble type of dude. In no time you bite down, teeth sinking into the very first layer of his skin. This time he full on moans. You reply by keeping a steady pace out of low-key spite, but your tongue still flicks over and plays with the skin caught between your teeth. You can taste salty sweat and Dirk. Dirk taste is a lot like Dirk smell, something you're currently inhaling with your full lung capacity. Although sweet, it burns your nostrils in a way only he could make them.

Should you love or hate him? Reason says hate. There is no logical reason why you should love this asshole, and you're all about that logic. You even get off to logic, logic is the core of your existence. So why do you love him more than you loved anything and anyone else before?

It's difficult to describe exactly what you feel for him, but it's there. It's there and eating you up from the inside out.

Motherfucker, focus.

You emphasize the "focus" with an exceptionally hard thrust. He jerks under your touch and you feel like your bite broke skin and drew blood. Like a dog, you let go and begin licking and kissing the area as a sign of silent apology. You feel his fingers in your hair, rustling up whatever's left to ruin by now.

Your lips part from his skin and you can almost picture your saliva slowly evaporating from the surface as you puff a warm breath of air onto it. He makes another sound, a desperate mewl. Seeing fit to reply to it, you mutter out an incoherent row of cusses into his neck. Your hands inch up his sides with a far gentler touch. The kind that makes your fingertips tingle while trying to absorb and memorize the texture of his skin. You like the tingle, it's like another serpent constricting around your chest, abdomen, throat, every vital part your body possesses. It makes it difficult to breathe, sure, but there's an odd comfort in the asphyxiation. 

Speaking of which, it's exactly what he's begging you for every time you're sinfully touching each other.

You move up from the comfort of his neck, instantly missing his fingers in your hair, and straighten your back up a bit. The position had it in a weird arch forward. It went unappreciated by your pained vertebrae. You're no masochist yourself, so there's a solid amount of relief when you did so. The light in the corner of the room flickers for a second. Neither of you are distracted by it, your hands are still slowly moving up. One slow, agonizing inch at a time. The left one moves to the center of his chest and spreads there. Fingers separate to get as much of space covered as they could, and your palm presses him down into the mattress. He's coping with not holding your hair anymore by gripping the bed sheets. As you glance to his hands you see him white-knuckling the poor covers, but your look settles back to your hand on his chest. You focus on his speedy heartbeat and how he squirms beneath your touch. As you press, your pelvis speeds up like a man on a mission.

If he wasn't nailed down like that, he'd probably wince. Your right hand makes its way to his throat and wraps around it. Studying his face, you give it a firm squeeze like you did a short while ago. Precise, your fingers mercilessly press into his carotid artery instead of crushing his windpipe. 

His eyes go from shock-wide, to half-lidded. The look he gives you is remarkable. Something rare, but welcome. Mixes of fear, appreciation, respect, love, loathe, admiration, disgust. You see it all in the windows to his soul like you're watching another reality series with overly emotional inbred pricks.

Someone else would describe the "spark" in his eyes to be fading as you disable oxygen from reaching his brain. But in his case it just burns brighter and stronger. It pinches at your chest again. You don't want to hurt him, but he wants to be broken.

You're breaking him. You have never ruined someone the way you ruined him, but it doesn't even begin to compare to the way he wrecked you. Kicked down your wobbly lego tower and reassembled it to his liking.

You're nothing but his creation, a modification. And he is your creator. You are programmed to assist him, and like any other program and machine, are easy to erase when you've outlived your use.

With that thought in mind, your hand slips from his chest. The lube is all the way on the nightstand. Too far for your liking. He watches your seemingly confident movements with a droopy gaze. His pupils dilate when you spit into your hand and reach for his cock.

Steadying your pace with your hips, you tug at his dick in sync with the motions with your slightly moistened hand. His lips part in a soundless effort to make noise, but you refuse to allow him. No matter how much you want to hear him moan your name and let loose simply, and no matter how harder the snake is squeezing your body.

You tug his foreskin up over his glans to smear the precome on it, and you prolong the motion just to jerk it back down again. Somehow he manages to weasel out a high-pitched whine and he's rock fucking hard, as if it wasn't obvious by now. His muscles look as if they're tensing. You can feel how close he is so you speed up, both your hips and your hand. They work in perfect harmony.

All this time you were counting. Two minutes, thirty six seconds since you cut off his air supply. At minute five he should be losing consciousness. You waste no time pounding him in like wants you to. To drill him into the mattress which does nothing but creak under your combined weight. The silence in the faintly illuminated room is corrupted with heavy breathing from your side, sound of skin slapping against skin, sounds of him being jacked off to temporary bliss.

At three minutes, five seconds, he's done. His back arches under you as his body thrashes like a dying fish flopping after it's been caught and denied water. He finishes all over your hand and his stomach, thin strips of white serving as a nice decoration for the outside of that holy temple. You let him ride out the orgasm to the fullest by loosening the grip on his throat a little and continuing to slam into him while jerking him off. Your movements became slower and slower, until they eventually come to a halt. You allowed him to breathe and he wheezed as he finally caught a good breath of air. Nearly coughing, you notice when the wheezes mix with the raspy pain he must feel. The guilt drapes over you like a sheet when you catch the way he's trying NOT to let it be noticeable.

You pull out, he groans due to overstimulation. For a second too long, you observe his chest going up, then descending back down with each heavy breath.

The mattress sinks down when you finally plop onto it. Still hard, but facing the possibly of not even finishing this night, you experimentally grab your dick and start clumsily jerking off. Now that possibility is out of the question. You might be hornier than you actually give yourself credit for. Dirk is preoccupied with getting a grip on himself to aid you in your efforts.

You look at him next to you, all tired, messy, beaten. So you close your eyes. This isn't what you want, what you crave. Call yourself a vanilla schmuck and that wouldn't be too far from the truth.

You close your eyes as shut as they get, you beat the meat shamelessly next to him and on his bed. The archive your brain has is bringing forth valuable information that it stored for just such a purpose. Dirk smells sweet as you recall. With that in mind your motions become faster, more frantic. The way his skin felt under your fingertips when you grazed him lightly. His heartbeat under your palm which makes your lip curl up for a short moment. Amber eyes not unlike honey. They shone with a more intense orange this night. You can't say you don't like it, it's something new and exciting. He let you kiss him. You shoot back to that short moment. When he's in his masochistic state, he doesn't allow kissing. Not even soft pecking. But you crave that shit like it's another form of nicotine your body needs, and he actually allowed you to press your lips against his into a short yet powerful kiss.

It's something that tips you off the edge. You huff quietly and ejaculate... wherever. You can't see with your closed eyes but you felt a bit of it on your hand. When you open them there's nothing but darkness. Shitty fucking lamp probably needs a lightbulb change. There goes your ambient.

A full minute passes before your eyes are somewhat used to the darkness, and you can make out his faint silhouette next to you. He's turned to you, and you can actually feel his eyes heavily observing your movements. Must've seen you jerking off, but what else is new here? It isn't the first time you came without his assistance, so why does he look so different now? What is he thinking about? Did he like it? Is he bummed that you couldn't will yourself to come while screwing him because of your own fucked up complexes? Your head hurts. Why can't you read him as easy as you could a few minutes ago?

Finally the bed creaks and Dirk sits up. His eyes are concentrating on something in the far corner of his room and your gaze follows his. Nothing there. Must be contemplating recent events. As were you, to an extent, but the guilt blanket is overheating your body and making it slightly squirm.

You guess he notices the squirm since he's now looking down on you. Propping yourself on your elbows, you refuse to let his eyes be condescending towards your person. Although you should, since he's really the only person you'll allow to look down on you. Pride is something you value to the max and have an abundance of, but when it comes to Dirk, you'd give it all up if it'll satisfy him. He sighs, and you visibly relax from your tense posture. The bed creaks again when he stands up. Him being wobbly on his feet like a newborn foal would make you smile if not for the reason he's walking like that.

He turns to you, and your eyes are adapted enough to make out the glow in his eyes again. It's fading.

"I'm taking a shower." Dirk says as if wasn't obvious already. It's a routine by now. How couldn't you know? He sure does have the tendency to point out the obvious. You don't care, though. It's Dirk. Nothing he does is even remotely stupid.

You fold your arms under your head in a relaxed pose. Only then you remember the semen on your hand and inwardly cringe. Outside you're smiling, nearly grinning. A defense mechanism which has an amazing success-to-flunk ratio.

"Think about me, will you?" You coo to him in a joking manner, but there's some sincerity here you both don't fail to recognize.

He waves you off like he doesn't give a shit, thinking you wouldn't see the fraction of a smile on his face as he turns.

You don't move until you hear the bathroom door shut and the shower turn on. Then you jerk up and wipe your hands and stomach with some wetwipes he has on his nightstand. You aim to throw them in the bin, but you're not as precise in the dark as you want to be. What's different, though? Just another cum-stained napkin that missed the trash because it wasn't thrown hard enough. You are akin to the napkin. It's you, you're the fucking wetwipe.

Experience tells you Dirk won't get out of the shower anytime soon. You shift fully onto the bed and crawl under the warm covers. Everything smells like him and you're content like this. Especially when you bury your face in his pillow just so his smell can explode into your face. This must have been a bad idea, your chest feels like it's going to give up on you. Like the sound of tough fabric ripping under a dull knife, you feel it tearing and stinging.

That bullshit about you not being a masochist? What a load of crap. You obviously enjoy getting ripped apart limb from limb. You'll never find yourself not enjoying this feeling. Unlike him, you need to be put in your place as you deserve. Not physically, in this case. The scars and bruises you gave him will heal eventually. Your fabric can be sown back, but you'll always see and feel the spot where a needle and thread connected the two parts.

Dozing off on his spot was never your intention. He doesn't appreciate it when you do. Surprisingly, you're not woken up by someone nudging you to move. Or anything for that matter. Your sleep is dreamless and bland, but you wake up to a Strider sleeping next to you. It's all you need at the moment, so you just settle on studying his peaceful features while they last.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Nox, fucker who showed me the song and who's always all kinds of enthusiastic whenever I shit some writing out. Enjoy your porn.
> 
> Also, happy birthday.


End file.
